


Close Enough to Touch

by dirkapitated



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gay, M/M, dave tho, davesprite reference, johndave - Freeform, l o l, tattoo artist!john, they fuck in the second chapter, turntechghead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-09 03:52:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirkapitated/pseuds/dirkapitated
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a tattoo artist. Dave wants a tattoo. Dave thinks John is a babe. Dave has his ways of getting to people.</p>
<p>...CollegeStuck AU? i'm not sure. But Sburb may be an MMORPG in this AU! but it won't be a huge plot device.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

You had always loved showing skin, even though you never openly expressed it.

Even as a boy, the concept of being able to used body art and clothes to express yourself was fascinating. Which was why you, despite being a total geek, worked as a tattoo artist. You loved being able to mark people with a part of their life, that they could never remove. Sometimes it was just little things that you got to do, like a heart or a name, or something generic, fake, stereotypical. But other times you would get meaningful ones... like the ones you never fully understood but still meant something to the person receiving the mark.

You got to be an observer, someone who was behind the curtain of lies and small talk and clothing. You got to know people without saying a word to them. Most of the people that came in to get tattooed didn't even say anything.

But that's exactly why Dave Strider, as your appointment list said, was so goddamned confusing.

He was eighteen, just like you, and apparently this was the first tattoo he was ever receiving. And it was a big one, too. An elaborate set of orange, lineless wings that stretched the length of his back and went around his sides, and over the skin on his ribs. You silently hoped this boy who was new to the business knew what he was in for with this. 

You began to set up your station, slowly, methodically, but rather carelessly as you meandered around the dark little shop. There was a weird, though well-known fact about Incisis Tattoos-- it had two doors. The shop was whatever business took up residence on one half of the place by day, and there was an ever-present bar and nightclub through the other door. Because of most of the workers leaving at night to get a drink, that meant that during the day everything was in perpetual clutter, with wheeled carts spread about, tattoo machines resting carefully atop them. Incisis was not a top-notch place-- it was a sterile environment, just slightly cramped. Before it was a place to get tattoos, it was a place for piercings, and before that, a nail art shop. Disorder was something you liked just as much as every single tattoo on your arms. Not that anyone ever saw them, of course. You wore long sleeves and pants, unlike most of the other artists at the shop. Not even they knew about your self-done tattoos. 

The appointment time gradually grew nearer, and passed as the day grew older, the sun casting a red glaze over everything along the busy city street. Incisis was a small, hole in the wall place. You assumed the boy couldn't find it.

Just as you were about to put away the supplies and push the rolling table out of the way to provide more room, the bell at the front made a loud chime, indicating a customer. You leisurely walked up to the front... to see a rather strange sight.

A rather tall man was leaned over the desk, looking as if he belonged in the shop, despite looking so out of place. Even in the dimly lit little place, he was still wearing shades. He had a rather striking shock of white blonde hair that looked sleek but still a little angsty, hanging in his eyes just slightly and giving him the appearance of someone who could definitely be a stoner without anyone but a trained eye noticing.

You stared, because he was just so weird and out of place but he looked so right and the way the sun was hitting his face and how  _pale_ his skin was, you just wanted to get out your tattoo gun already and--

"'Sup. Got an appointment last night. Dave Strider?"

You walked up to the counter, clearing your throat, sizing up to this strange boy, which you tended to do. His voice had just the slightest drawl, and it was impossibly deep for someone his age. You tried to make sure yours was as low as possible as you spoke.

"Hey, yeah, I've got you..." You looked down, resenting breaking eye-to-shade contact, and you started scrawling things on the appointment sheet. As you did so, you decided to make some more small talk, get him comfortable. Maybe he'll tell you more about his tattoo. 

"Any reason why you're late?"

You heard him make a tutting noise, as if he was thinking. "The sun. Besides, I don't have to be on time, right? Time is relative, anyways, so if you've been waiting around for me, I might seem late, but I've been actually doing shit, so I feel early in retrospect."

You looked up at him, blinking. You'd met overenthusiastics, punks, rockers, lovers, and crazy people. but never someone like this. He needed his own category. So you decided to call him a Strider. If that was even his actual last name.

And why did 'the sun' make him late, anyway?

The blonde continued to add to the air of discomfort, leaning farther over the counter. "My skin's really sensitive to the sun. Part of the reason I'm getting this damned thing."

You gave him a smile that time, your lips curling up, revealing your buck teeth that you knew just barely showed. 

"Alright, follow me, and we'll get you started."

\-------

You were sitting on a stool next to the tattooing table, watching your customer take off his longsleeve baseball-style shirt, then his tanktop, and lazily sling them over a rung on the seat you were perched on. Without you even having to tell him, he was on his stomach, his bare, freckled, pale back exposed to your eyes. It was so blank, so empty, and such a beautiful, white canvas, you had to tell yourself not to touch him. Also, he had an almost painstakingly beautiful, long, white scar that ran crossways up his back. It was shiny in the fake, bright light of the lamp above the table, and it looked sensitive and tender. It made you think of a broken porcelain doll, because that was this boy's shade of skin in the first place. Besides your most likely immature and homosexual gawking, you already worked at what is a predominantly gay bar at night. You didn't need any more influence, or weird bi-curious thoughts. You were straight, and that was the end of it.

It didn't take long for you to get him ready to be tattooed. He was already relatively clean, you noted, as you ran a disinfecting wipe up and down his back, letting it ghost along the pale skin. Plus, he had brought his own template, which he had claimed to have designed, which you didn't believe, but you accepeted with a suscpicious uncertainty. Your machine, or 'gun', as you had learned to affectionately call it due to a certain green-eyed cousin, was already full of bright yellow-orange, and the template on his back as soon as he told you he was 'fucking pumped, so ready to do this'.

And in a moment, the needle was under his skin, and yellow-orange was blossoming out into it like the ink left on a surface from a dying flower. 

You always liked doing color fills, and it was the job you normally got, because you were good at it. Most other inkers found it tedious and boring, but it was relaxing to you. Monotonous, simple, easy. It allowed you to let your thoughts drift and do what you love. 

And there is yet another thing to add to the list of Why Dave Strider Needs His Own Social Caste- when the needle is injected into him, he doesn't so much as flinch. Most people will cry out or shift in discomfort, even if it's not their first time. But Dave is new to this, but it's as if he doesn't even care as you begin to trace designs in his back. Maybe it had something to do with the scar.

You thought like this for a while, assuming this boy wasn't up for too much conversation. But obviously, the cool kid couldn't take more than five minutes of silence, but even still you were surprised to hear his voice.

"So, what's your name?"

"John Egbert."

You heard him snigger. Classic douchey reaction. 

"Wow, I didn't even know that was a name!" He was snorting now, in this really hilarious and rather iornically dorky way, and tou had to take off the needle for a second, watching him crack up because of your name.

"How am I gonna tattoo you if you're just gonna laugh at my name, you dick?" You grumbled the last part, holding the machine in one hand as if it were an actual pistol.

"Oh god, sorry." He wiped his face, still subduing laughter. "Oooh my fuck, I never knew that was a real, actual name, I'm so sorry, man. Okay I'm done. Sorry. That was a dick move."

"No problem," You say, almost admiring this kid's stupid sense of humor. Despite his general doucheyness, everything with him seemed to be well-intentioned, so you didn't mind. Instead, you approached with another question, instead of continuing the rather resentful topic.

"So, where do you work?"

"Everywhere and nowhere. I'm a DJ." 

You nodded. "Have you ever DJ'ed here?"

"I didn't know you could DJ for a tattoo shop."

Another thing to add to the List About Dave: no matter what he didn't understand, he always acted like he knew what was going on.

You continued tattooing, beginning to let your hand take you places as it carefully worked around the scar, your brain on tattooing autopilot, as you didn't notice. 

"Well, actually, at night this place is a club, no lie."

He just made a strained gesture that you think was a shrug. So he was in pain, no matter how well he hid it. You took away a few meager Respect Points for that one, but yet another number on The List.

"Here, though. Weird. It would look like your place isn't sanitary or something."

"Nah, the club is on the other side of the building."

"Oh, the boarded up with black paper side? Or whatever?"

"Yep."

"Happens a lot in little city places. But I like the aesthetics of this place. I'll have to see if I can get a gig. Do you work here at night?"

You shook your head, maybe a little too quickly, because you would never be caught working at a gay bar, before realizing he couldn't see you, but then responded verbally with a quick "No".

"You'd fit the job as a bartender well. You don't seem like a tattoo artist to me."

"Eh."

"Most of these people are fucking punk rock, and you just... aren't? I guess?"

You laughed at this, steadying your tattooing hand before you fucked something up.

"Yeah, I know I don't look it. But I like what I do nonetheless."

"Okay, then what do you do outside of being an incomplete artist hipster?"

Okay, you have to admit it, this dude is hilarious.

"Um... heh, watch movies, sing, play piano, I don't know."

"Movies."

"Yeah." The topic of movies brought up wonderful memories of long, drawn out nic cage film sessions with your sister, Jade. 

"What kind."

"Um... I don't know, Nic Cage?"

"Oh god."

"What?"

"His movies are so  _bad,_ though."

"No they're not, shut up!"

"Man, I'm gonna have to teach you what real movies are. You go to the community college, by any chance?"

"Yeah, I do, actually!"

"So do I."

"Cool!" 

To be completely honest with yourself, Dave wasn't actually that bad, as you learned, since you had the motivation to keep up the dialogue for some reason. He was born in texas, a corn-fed baby with his twin sister, and older brother, Dirk. Their parents split when they were five, and the genders went their separate ways. His mom and sister went to live in New York, and Dave, his older brother, or Bro as he called him, and whether it was affectionate or cool or ironic you didn't know, along with their dad stayed in Texas. You found out their dad had left them when he was around six and Dirk was fifteen. Dirk had ended up raising Dave on his own, using money from his 'creepy demented muppet porn' to keep them alive, which you thought was weird. After a while Bro started to train Dave to survive on his own, which is the origin of the scar, which was only indirectly brought up once. He seemed to avoid the topic, and you were fine with that.

It was dark, and almost closing time when you were finished, and Dave got up to look at it in the mirror. The ink seemed to bleed orange into the jagged scar, still leaving it a tinge of the natural color of the pallor skin.

"If you don't like it, I can change it." You said nervously.

After a moment of silent regard by the coolkid, he slowly nodded, calculative. "It looks good. Great, actually."

"Just make sure you wear loose shirts for a while."

"Got it."

And with that, he left, the bell dinging, though much more sad-sounding, as he went out. You were disappointed that you never got any contact from him, but as you were cleaning up, you discovered a note on the tattoo bench.

 

turntechGodhead-- thought you might want this


	2. shit, you told yourself you weren't gay.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is from forever ago. just posting it. not even gonna edit it

 

 

 

 

 

After a long day at the shop and one strange, orange, watercolor tattoo, you were at your shitty, shoebox apartment in the city, watching an old movie on your laptop. Your pesterchum, which happens to be a very old but rather useful chat client, is open in the corner of the screen, undisturbed by any individuals. You would have expected to get pestered by a certain raven-haired, bespectacled girl by now. But it seems that she is busy.

The tattoo continued to bother you ceaselessly. Why wings? Why on a man? 

Why was is almost the same tattoo that you had?

Only you and another very close friend knew you had blue wings on your back. They represented a person very close to you for a long time. Sometimes, you would step out of the shower and see it in the mirror, and every time you did you thought of it as a mistake. It hurt to cry every time you saw it, but you did, and somehow, crying made the pain from death feel a little bit better.

You take your glasses off, wiping your eyes and putting your face in your hands. God, you wished you could just stop this stupid depression from just lingering.

You calm down. The night was still young, and the stars were sparkling with promise. You didn't have work tonight.

Maybe it was better to forget about all of this and go enjoy yourself at the Incisis. You hadn't been to the place without working in ages, and you felt like a good drink was a good idea. Besides, if Jade wasn't pestering you, maybe she was there. Maybe she was there with some girls from her fraternity. Yeah, that sounds like fun. Talking to some girls, maybe helping Karson get with some chick.

Karson was a peculiar, black-haired, and rather height-challenged boy with piercing red eyes and dark skin. He was also your best friend, and probably the grumpiest person you had ever met. But despite his flaws, like the acne he never failed to scratch into scarring and the freckles that dotted his face from being out in the sun too long, he was great, and he actually liked you, so that had to count for something, right?

So it was decided. Wallet in hand, you stepped out into the dark night, watching the streelights flicker as you walked past them, enjoying the city in its entirety. You saw someone across the street from you, jogging, holding something long that gleamed in the moonlight. You understood their strange choice of time with longing. The night felt like empty, and empty felt like flying. 

You felt silly, like you were a kid again, as you, too, ran through the night, darting past benches and trees, so you, too, could feel like you were flying. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

The sound of the club pounded in your ears, and you had never felt better. Your longsleeve shirt was clinging to you because someone had spilt beer on you, but you didn't care. This felt great, just fitting in and being a part of the crowd, weaving through the mob of people like a warm, inviting breeze. You had seen Jade, but had left her be. You wanted to be alone, and you knew anyone that saw you understood this.

But obviously not the shirtless dude who was heading towards you and eying you like you were a piece of meat.

At first, you barely recognized him, but when he turned just slightly, as if on your mental command, wings were glowing orange on his back, making him resemble a fallen angel, almost. 

You were so drunk, staring at him and you really just could not drink in the look of him any more, because he looked so different in the dark and escpecially without his shades--

"Thought you said you didn't work here."

The voice was deep and brooding, and you swore in that moment you were gay because holy shit, his eyes were red and on fire and you were going to die. You were so, so drunk. You had been drinking too much and you hadn't had alchohol in forever and wow. Just wow.

"I don't."

Your voice was slurred as the lean shaped stepped towards you, and you felt even more red bloom across your cheeks. It was so obvious he could tell what you were feeling, and he was obviously totally and completely wasted, too.

You were both wasted, physically and emotionally. Or, at least, you were.

"Then why are you here?"

A simple question, which needed an even simpler answer.

"Escape."

The coolkid smiled, transferring his beer glass from one hand to another.

"Then I guess neither of us have anything to lose."

And, suddenly, you were kissing. Liplocked, your gangly arms snaking around his amply muscled ones as you embraced someone you barely knew but had a great connection to, for one reason only. There was a chasm of acquaintanceship; depression, art, and loneliness had made an unstable bridge. All over a fucking tattoo that made you a little more emotional than should be intended.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that's the first chapter! hope you guys like it, i'll hopefully be doing chap. 2 ASAP!  
> EDIT: this is my first continuing Johndave fic, and I do enjoy the crit i am getting! I edited some of the content because someone gave me some very valuable information on tattoo shops, and there were a plethora of typos.
> 
> also, i'm not very familiar with ao3's chaptering system, but no this is not a oneshot! there will be more chapters.
> 
>  
> 
> my tumblr is turntechghead, if you would like to message me about the fic.


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